Snapshots & Sneak Peaks
by Feagalad
Summary: Here is a collection of drabbles and/or one shots bout our beloved Consulting Detective & Co. that will include humour, angst, adventure, and probably a bit of romance as well. Please do Read & Review!
1. Sherlock Holmes, MD (Morbid Delusional)

**Author's Note:** I know, I know...I'm starting a new fic when I haven't yet finished the ones I'm currently working on. Well - I am not abandoning those stories by any means; I just have spent too much time away from the _Lord of the Rings_ fandom and so really need to get my head back in the game before continuing on. So I thought, in the interest of keeping my loyal readers from entertained and myself in practice, I would take time to post some of the excerpts and ideas I have had for fics that have taken the form of one-shots and/or drabbles. This is purely mercenary, you understand. I am trying to prioritise - so if you all see a particular excerpt that you like and would like to hear the rest of the story, make sure you say so in a review. If I see enough requests for a certain story then I will make sure it gets bumped to the top of my list.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing within - not the characters, settings, or franchises. All I own is the plot ideas that I myself have come up with, and even those were inspired by the work of others.

* * *

Lestrade ran a hand over his eyes wearily and trudged up the dilapidated stairs that led to the bio-hazardous dump Sherlock called a flat. He really hoped that he would find the dangerously bright addict sober. All too often he had called or dropped by to find Sherlock shooting up on cocaine or (not illegal but still worrisome) passed out from low blood sugar and Lestrade was getting tired of picking the man up off the floor or hiding the less appropriate behaviour from his colleagues.

He must be getting desperate if he was even considering letting _Sherlock_ onto his latest crime scene. Now if only the man wasn't high…

"Ah, there you are, Lestrade!" Sherlock was sounding alarmingly cheerful (almost manic) as he waved a scalpel in the air for a greeting. "I was wondering when you'd turn up."

"Sorry?" Lestrade felt rather unsettled by Sherlock's faux omniscience (at least he hoped it was faux).

* * *

**TBC...**


	2. When You Find A CD On Your Couch

** Author's Note: **Carol is the name I have given to Lestrade's wife. This idea, at least, came to me originally because that is a name that I really like. If anyone else has also used the name, because it is a common one, I apologise. It is not my intention _in any way_ to copy what has already been written.

* * *

Lestrade hummed happily to himself as he strolled into the kitchen for his morning coffee. Carol was off to her sister's and he had the entire week off to lounge in his boxers and watch telly, the sun was shining, birds were singing, Sherlock Holmes was on his couch madly typing away on _his_ laptop…wait – _what_?

"Sherlock – I, I…how?" Greg tried to force his pre-caffeine brain to process coherently, but all that came out was a stream of jumbled splutterings.

"And a good morning to you too, Detective Inspector." The self-styled Consulting Detective replied snarkily. "Don't overstrain your paltry mind on my account." His thin fingers flew over the keyboard and stopped, tapping impatiently on the wireless mouse (Lestrade never had gotten the hang of those touch pads). Sherlock glared at the frozen screen as though it was a particularly stupid Yarder and shook the stubborn laptop with a jerk of annoyance that was belied by his casual tone. "You know, you should really get your hard drive cleaned out – it's slower than a Galapagos Tortoise."

Greg was aware that he was currently doing a rather credible impression of a codfish, but he felt that dealing with Holmes first thing in the morning was an ample excuse for anyone to be gaping. (And it was before he had had his coffee too; someone in Heaven must _hate_ him!) He wanted to shake the infuriating man, to demand what Sherlock thought he was doing – but all that came out was: "I thought it was password protected." "_Dear lord did that ever sound sulky! What are you, Greg, six? Sherlock?_"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and set to speed-typing again. "There was a password, if that's what you meant. 'Protected', not so much." The scorn in his voice was palpable and Lestrade contemplated breaking out something stronger than coffee, even if it was before ten in the morning. Surely having Sherlock Holmes in one's flat was justification for a drink or twenty…

* * *

**TBC...**


	3. The Care And Feeding Of Your Detective

"You mean you haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning?" Martha was horrified as Sherlock carelessly nodded. She reached out and caught his elbow, tugging him down the street after her – much to his bewilderment.

"Mrs. Hudson – what?" The great skinny goose spluttered in protest, but she was having none of it.

"We are getting you something to eat, young man."

"I don't require – "

"Nope, no, I simply will not hear any protests!" She kept a tight hold on Sherlock's arm and was somewhat heartened when he didn't react with shielding anger. "So, what would you like: italian, a sandwich, fish n' chips?"

Sherlock had given up on trying to tug away, but still tried one more argument. "I, uh, appreciate this _sentiment_, Mrs. Hudson." He said stiffly – practically choking on the word 'sentiment'. "But it's really not necessary. I'm only saving for the rent (can't afford to be late this month). Another day or two and I can – "

"Sandwiches it is, then." Martha guided him towards a small café. "It's nearly eleven-o-clock and I'm feeling a bit peckish myself. Indulge an old lady, would you? Have lunch with me." Sherlock made no move to correct the 'old lady' comment – but allowed Martha to lead him inside the café and to a little window table for two.

Martha paused as she read the menu board – uncertain as to Sherlock's likes and dislikes. Supposing he was a picky eater, or had religious strictures placed on his diet! (She mentally ruled out Mormonism or any similar establishment, given his tendency to smoke like a chimney, and made her best guess at the rest). Finally she settled on the roast beef sandwich (no dairy, no nuts, no pork) and a cup of coffee – something hoped he wouldn't mind black. After a moment of deliberation during which she snuck a look at his bony, trembling hands, she ordered three hot, buttery croissants for afters.

Sherlock was impatiently tapping his fingers against the tabletop when she returned and his eyes darted to the door periodically, yet Martha was relieved to see that he hadn't bolted.

"Here we are, Sherlock!" She piped cheerfully, dropping into the seat opposite. "Eat up."

He ignored her instructions in favour of carefully emptying every last grain from exactly two packets of sugar into his coffee and sipping the hot drink appreciatively. Martha studied his odd, handsome face – noting the pale skin and sharp features. He'd been skimping on his supplies more often than was good for him, it would seem. Well – she'd just have to do what she could to fix that, although she would have to be careful that she didn't alert his pride to what she was trying to do. First things first, though: she had to get some food into the silly boy. "Sherlock – are you vegetarian?"

Startled from his thoughts, Sherlock blinked and looked at her in confusion. "What?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** This excerpt has since been expanded into the fic _Chance Encounters_ which details the origins of the Sherlock-Mrs. Hudson relationship so if you like what you read here, go to my profile and check the expanded version out.

**TBC…**


	4. Irene Knows Best

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* * *

Irene Adler always enjoyed her morning coffee hour. This was the time that was hers – the precious hour or so before she had to sit down and go to work. She generally used this time (before she had to write her articles about the banality of the Moscow cosmetics scene) to check up on what was happening over in her home country…hoping secretly that a certain dishy detective would appear with the latest report of his daring escapades. They were better than reading a novel, especially when Doctor Watson was adding commentary.

So opening up her laptop and entering the password, The Woman set about checking her email and the news from England. A few moments into her reading she was brought up short, staring at the screen in utter shock.

**Suicide of Fake Genius**

_Fraudulent detective takes his own life._

The cheekbones and deerstalker of the picture were unmistakable; Sherlock Holmes had been declared a fraud – and a dead one at that.

Now she had called Sherlock Holmes many things in the year or so that she had known him (sexy, Mr. Holmes, bastard, and Junior, among others) but _never_ would she call him a fraud. She knew better; she had seen that quicksilver mind in action – had felt the force of it as he turned the razor sharp edge against her. There must be some mistake!

Irene snatched up her phone and hastily composed a text.

_I know you're not dead,_

_ let's have dinner._

_ xxx _

She expected a grumpy _'I'm not hungry'_ in return and happily composed a whole arsenal of witty retorts as she waited the detective's reply. He must have some reason for faking his death (she could sympathise) because there was no way that Sherlock Holmes could be dead, especially not at his own hand. Irene Adler had made a living off of deducing what people were like and how they ticked, so she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock would never commit suicide. The smug man was far too fond of his brain to jump off of a building like that. Besides – from what she knew of him he didn't really care what people thought of him. So if he didn't hate himself and wasn't afraid of others what was going on? Clearly his little game with Master Moriarty had gone pear-shaped and Sherlock had decided that it was time to disappear. Well that was perfect; they could disappear together and maybe she could get revenge on the Consultant Criminal for throwing her to the dogs the way he had after she lost her phone.

She couldn't be sure but she'd be willing to bet most of what she had that Jim had been the one to organise her capture by those terrorists. She would suspect Mycroft Holmes (that man really _was_ made of ice) but Irene highly doubted that the Consultant Politician would bother with getting his hands dirty when others would be perfectly willing to do the legwork for him. So no – it had to have been Jim and she couldn't wait to see what Sherlock had in mind for that bastard.

* * *

**TBC...**


	5. A Friend In Need

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* * *

"I'm going to get clean." Sherlock said as if he were commenting on the dismal state of the weather.

"I'm sorry?" Lestrade blinked twice and peered suspiciously into his cup to make sure that it was indeed coffee therein.

Sherlock gave the Detective Inspector a pitying look. "I assure you that you did indeed hear me correctly." He entered a few numbers and Carol's printer whirred to life – turning out a couple of article pages.

Tilting his head far to the left and squinting, Lestrade saw that it was a set of articles on coke withdrawal symptoms. "Are you really sure you want this?" He asked the genius. "It's not going to be easy and if you relapse – "

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved a hand loftily. "I have done this several times before, you know. I know all about the paranoia, the chills, and the nausea better than you do. Recreational user, remember?"

"Right." Lestrade sighed wearily; so much for his lazy weekend. "So you want me to help?"

He was graced with another scathing look, but if he didn't know better he would say that Sherlock sounded just the tiniest bit…uncertain whenever he spoke, though the words were superior and impersonal as ever. 'I have never had reason to attempt a permanent detox before." He said, speaking from behind the laptop screen. "It may prove…advantageous to not be unsupervised during the process."

_You pillock. You could just come out and admit to needing help like the rest of us mere mortals. Maybe then you wouldn't be at risk of being punched every time you open your mouth._ Lestrade drained his coffee and stretched, cracking his spine with a contented groan. "Well – I'm in the mood for some breakfast so what say we fry up some eggs before the fireworks begin?"

"You can eat them, Lestrade. I, on the other hand, have vital research to finish before your antiquated system bites the dust. This endeavour will provide _such_ interesting data."

"Nope, sorry, sunshine." Greg reached over and closed the laptop, firmly tugging it out of Sherlock's hands. "That wasn't a suggestion. You're going to have a rough couple days coming up and I'll be damned if I let you go into it with low blood sugar on top of everything else. So sit down and get something substantial down that gob of yours."

Sherlock made a nose of protest as he was propelled towards the kitchen table, but Lestrade was having none of it. "Shut your mouth and eat some breakfast." He flopped a bowl and some cereal in front of the skinny genius and went to the fridge for some milk.

"How could I possibly follow those oxymoronic instructions?"

He shoved the jug at his unexpected (and very rude) guest. "_You're_ the genius – figure it out!"

The genius filled a bowl and started liberally applies spoonful after spoonful of sugar to the frosted flakes before dumping on the milk. "There – you can stop your clucking now; I'm eating. When I expel it violently later you can apologise."

"With that amount of sweet I'd be puking too." Greg observed as he downed his own cereal (why bother with eggs?) "How can you eat that stuff?"

"Open mouth, insert food, chew, and swallow." Came the snarky response. "I thought you were encouraging me to eat, not putting me off with deliberately obtuse conjectures."


	6. BORED!

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* * *

"Did you just call me an idiot?" Anderson said, looking both shocked and put-out."

"Of course not." Sherlock replied absently, sniffing at the corpse's lapels and examining the buttonhole stitching. "That would be an insult to idiots. I believe my exact words were _'Are you really such an_ incompetent _idiot?'_ – do try and make some effort at keeping up." He took one last look at the man's tie tack and straightened up. "Lestrade – you've got the wrong man in custody. You should be looking for Arthur Featherstone's secretary. She killed her employer in a jealous rage when she found out that he was going back to his wife." The detective sighed and pocketed his magnifier. "Open and shut passion crime; _boring_!"

* * *

**TBC...**


End file.
